


To The End

by afterism



Category: Horrible Histories
Genre: M/M, No Man's Land, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterism/pseuds/afterism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What a man will say when he thinks he is about to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To The End

**Author's Note:**

> old-ish fic from the anon meme! from the prompt:  
> "I love you" one tells the other, in the heat of battle when they think that they're both going to die-  
> ...And then they don't.  
> Ah.  
> (Bonus points for there having been no previous relationship!)

No man's land screams in the charge, shells exploding by his side as he slip-slides across the craterous mud; the pock of bullets hitting earth and bodies and soft caps and Blenkinsop runs, both hands on his gun and the air so thick with smoke and choking and he can't see - muffled sounds of things slapping down into the mud, unmoving, forgotten in the silence lingering under the shriek of shrapnel and he throws himself down behind a ridge of thick earth, scant shelter in the storm, and breathes.

"Hullo, old sport," Maltravers says, a shuffle away from his elbow, and his face is deathly pale beneath the dirt.

" _Maltravers_ ," he breathes, in a quick, disbelieving rush. They had scrambled over the top of the trench at dawn and then Blenkinsop couldn't think, couldn't remember anything but running and now there's something swelling in his chest, hope and relief and so much it's choking him.

"Still here," Maltravers says, too honest and his voice shakes. His knuckles are red raw, his skin sickly white as his fingers grip his gun, half pushed into the mud as his cheek smears against the earth. His hand scrabbles over to Maltravers's arm, fingers clutching at his uniform as he drags himself closer, his head always below the lip of the crater, and Maltravers roughly grasps his collar, desperate and scratching in the mud.

"Stay close," Maltravers says, half hissed into Blenkinsop's ear. "If we keep low we can use the fog as cover and advance to the trench."

"Right," Blenkinsop says, because he knows what this is, and his mouth tastes like ash. "On the count of three?" like they can pretend this is a game and not--

"Yeah," Maltravers says, after a pause, like he's been ticking over the same quiet thoughts of a lifetime together, that click of memories wrapping around his lungs and his hand finds Blenkinsop's, clings so tight he can feel it through the numbing cold.

"One," Maltravers says, and Blenkinsop suddenly knows with stark clawing clarity he can't wait for three; blind panic and a single, detached thought of now or never where _never_ is truly, utterly final - Blenkinsop kisses him, roughly and muddy and cold, his fingers grasping the back of Maltravers's neck as his presses his chapped mess of a mouth against his lips.

"I love you," he gasps, breathless and urgent and nothing else matters, as he grips his gun with a mud-sticky hand and scrambles up to the top of the crater, into the wall of fog - and then Maltravers's hand catches on his ankle, a silent question and for an instant he hesitates, half-kneeling in the shell hole with one hand on the edge because this is the end and Maltravers is, always, everything, and then something in the smoke explodes.

\--

"That was rather unsporting, old chap," Maltravers says, soft as Blenkinsop cracks an eye open. His eyelashes feel sticky, his jaw aches and it feels like someone's wrapped a bandage too tightly around his brain, all wooly cotton and pressure. He blinks, and he can only see Maltravers, starkly half-shadowed from the single lamp hanging by the opposite side of his bed.

"What," Blenkinsop tries, his voice raw and rasping and he starts coughing, the field hospital roaring around them but Maltravers just gently coaxes him to roll onto his side and passes him the tin of water - all with his left hand, Blenkinsop dimly realises, and he can faintly pick out the angle of Maltravers’s other arm, pressed up against his chest.

"I'm alright, old bean," Maltravers murmurs, even as Blenkinsop can see the tattered mess of his uniform sleeve, the dark, stiff patches and his eyes roam over Maltravers's face properly, too dark even in the thick shadows and he's reaching for him instantly, his arm on top of the blankets and Maltravers stops his hand with his own - a silent response and there's a memory lingering at the edges, waiting. Maltravers brushes his thumb over Blenkinsop's knuckles, a soft note unnoticed in the ringing cacophony, and shuffles forward on his seat.

"We're alright," Maltravers promises, and tugs the corner of his mouth into a smile. Something that looks suspiciously like dried blood clings to his moustache.

"I say, how did we-," Blenkinsop starts, quiet and dusty, feels something lurking at the back of his throat and rolls to the side again, every limb under his own control and the memory seeps in; of smoke and running and the count of three, clawing at it with desperate fingers even as he manages to curl an unsteady hand around the tin cup and Maltravers lets go of his fingers to help him.

His chest tightens, ash in his mouth and he swallows it away as a delirious dizziness is creeping up on him, because he _survived_ , the choking fog and the shrieking bullets and he's alive and whole and Maltravers knows - _knows_ , because he was right beside him like always - and he's still here, even as Blenkinsop feels like the world is tilting violently.

"I jolly well wasn't going to leave you out there, was I?" Maltravers says, a weak attempt at jovial as he puts the tin back down and Blenkinsop just helplessly smiles, a fixed grin with an aching jaw as he flattens his hand against the scratchy blankets between them - and Maltravers covers his fingers with his own, gloved in blood and dirt and that familiar warmth, holding his gaze as he absently circles his thumb over the back of his hand.

"Our battalion is moving back to the reserves," Maltravers says, in the quiet moment - the tent is restless and manic around them, but Blenkinsop just takes a breath, his chest easing, and turns his hand so he can squeeze back, palm to palm.

"We'll be able to get some sleep, old bean," Blenkinsop jokes, and something about the way Maltravers's fingers tighten make his cheeks flush suddenly.

"I should let you get some rest. You'll be out soon enough, they're sure it's just a bit of a knock on the head," Maltravers says, drawing his hand away and tapping it against his thigh, readying himself in the quiet pause to stand up without whining. "Just a twinge," he allows, as a groan rumbles uninvited in the back of his throat and Blenkinsop's eyes flick, worried, to his face. He can see the dried blood scraped down his cheek as Maltravers turns towards him, jagged cuts and a black eye vicious in the stark light, and he must make some horrified noise as Maltravers lays a careful hand over his own again and smiles, soft.

"It's not as bad as it looks, old top," he sighs lightly, with the air of someone who's been avoiding mirrors, and he leaves as a nurse notices Blenkinsop is awake and hurries over.

\--

"Hullo, old bean," Blenkinsop says, pulling the gas curtain shut behind him and Maltravers's head snaps up from his report. Suddenly, here, down in the deep dug-out under the trenches, the war seems oddly far away.

"I say, I didn't know you were getting out so soon," Maltravers grins, dropping his pen and staring up at him. The glow of his smile makes even the yellowing bruise around his eye seem less vicious.

"I'm afraid I rather badgered them until they let me go," Blenkinsop says, taking off his cap and running a hand through his hair. "Instructed with light duty for the week. Got off rather lucky, I fear."

Maltravers snips away the lurking silence with a brisk smile and a hand on Blenkinsop's arm. "Do sit down, old sport," he says, leading him over to the bunks and sitting down with a scant inch between them. "It's been awfully quiet without you."

"We'll soon sort that out, what?" Blenkinsop laughs, easy and light and knocking their shoulders together, except the silence is still lingering in the corners of Maltravers's mouth and his laughter is swallowed up in the moment as they catch each other's eye, and. 

"That really was quite unsporting, charging off ahead like that," Maltravers breathes, and Blenkinsop catches his hand without looking, without daring to break his gaze away from the wide, impossible blue eyes that are staring at him. His fingers tighten against his own, and Maltravers's soft smile cants up into something brighter, a single candle in a dark room. 

"You always gave me a head start," Blenkinsop tries, because he's not sure he can do this, down in the muffled quiet of the deep shelter, except Maltravers is right beside him (as always) and now he's reaching up to curl a hand around the side of Blenkinsop's neck, rough skin and familiar warmth of his fingertips, and suddenly it's the simplest thing in the world to fit his lips against his and kiss him - especially as Maltravers breathes against his mouth with a stuttering little gasp and for a moment he wants to pull away just to tease him about it, but actually he doesn't want to stop kissing him ever.

"I didn't think you would ever-" Blenkinsop finds himself saying, his brain skittering away on a useless tangent without his permission. Maltravers stops him with a sweet crush of his lips.

"My dear chap," Maltravers murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "If you ever thought that I don't love you wholly and utterly, I fear you may not know me at all," he says, pulling him closer, and it's as simple as that.


End file.
